


Vigilant

by pennylehane



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Friendship, Gen, Literally Everybody Deserved Better, Matt Murdock Knows What's Up, Not Tony Stark Friendly, Peter Chooses Bad Role Models, Peter-centric, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Superheroes, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7272253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennylehane/pseuds/pennylehane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of CACW, Peter goes back to his life in New York without a blip. However, a teamup with Daredevil and an opportunity at work conspire to draw Peter's attention back to the battle at the airport. He can trust Iron Man, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I can only describe this as the product of my bitterness at how Peter was handled in CACW. And also how everyone else was handled in CACW. An attempt to bring Peter's story arc from the Civil War Comics into the MCU.

As if in retaliation for his reckless decision to follow Tony Stark into a superhero battle, Peter’s life came crashing down over him the second his feet hit American soil. He picked up his phone with his street clothes and saw the lock screen cluttered with alerts. He scrolled through the list of messages and missed calls with a note of panic that had nothing to do with his spider sense. 

 

 ** _Aunt May:_** _I saw Iron Man in a firefight in Germany_ _. Where are you?_  

 

 ** _Aunt May:_** _call me_  

 

 ** _Aunt May:_** _peter answer your phone_  

 

 ** _Aunt May:_** _s_ _poke to Mr Stark’s head of security, told me you had to leave your phone in your locker_ _. call me when you get it back._  

 

Peter sucked a breath in through his teeth and called her. She picked up before the first ring.  

 

 _“Peter?_ _What happened, what took you so long?”_  

 

“Aunt May, I-” He hesitated. He could feel a black eye blossoming up. “I, uh-” 

 

Could he say he’d tripped? Or been in a fight? When could he have gotten in a fight, if he’d only just gotten his phone back from Stark’s security? 

 

 _“Are you ok, Pete?”_  

 

May’s voice tugged him back to reality. Peter laughed. “Yeah, May, I’m fine, just a bit overexcited. I didn’t get to do the whole tour with Mr Stark- I mean, he was off being a superhero and I think he would probably have passed me on anyway I’m sure he’s busy, and anyway I had to leave my phone at the desk but I got to see the semi-public section of the labs and-” 

 

 _“Peter, breathe,”_ May chided, but she was laughing too. _“So where are you now?”_  

 

“Uh, yeah, that’s kinda the problem…” Peter looked up at the sprawling Manhattan skyline. There was no way he was swinging home on these ribs. “I couldn’t get a ride back with Mr Stark gone, so I’m gonna have to get back from Avengers Tower on the Subway, so I’ll be a little later home than I thought?” 

 

May sighed. _“That’s fine, Peter._ _Do you have change for it_ _?_ _”_  

 

“Yeah, Mr Stark’s receptionist gave me enough, since they couldn’t get me a driver.” It had been Mr Stark who had slipped him the bills, despite Peter’s protests, insisting he shouldn’t be swinging through Manhattan in his condition. Peter hadn’t had the nerve to argue, instead shoving the money deep into his jeans pocket as he shuttered out a polite response.  

 

May sighed. _“_ _Don’t get_ _in any trouble. I was worried.”_  

 

“What, did you think Mr Stark had smuggled me to Germany in his hand luggage?” Peter starting walking, debating whether or not to get mugged on the subway.  

 

 _“Don’t take that tone with me, Peter Parker.”_  

 

“You think I’m funny, really.” Peter glanced at the phone, thumbing through the remainder of his missed calls. “Look, May, I gotta go, I got like forty messages from Mr Jameson. I’ll see you soon?” 

 

 _“Yeah._ _”_ May hesitated.  _“_ _Did they give you enough to p_ _ick up some_ _milk_ _on the way?”_  

 

“I think so. I’ll let you know when I’m nearly home.” He had forgotten about the milk. Calculating the distance to the subway, Peter hung up on May and called the Bugle.  

 

 _“J._ _Jonah Jameson’s office, how ca_ _n I help you?”_  

 

“Betty? Uh, I was supposed to come in to the Bugle today, but…” 

 

There was a thumping noise that might have been the phone- or Betty’s head- against the desk. _“Where the hell have you been, Peter?_ _Jameson’s been hounding me to get a hold of you for hours. Hours, Peter! I’ve been fired four times!”_  

 

“Uh,” Peter managed. “How screwed am I?” 

 

 _“I_ _kinda_ _think he’s waiting for the pleasure of_ _telling you_ _himself._ _Where were you?”_  

 

“I was at a, uh- kind of a job interview?” 

 

Betty hissed out a steadying breath. _“Yeah, you can tell him that. I’ll put you through now-”_  

 

“Betty, do-” Peter broke off as a mechanical beep announced Betty’s departure. “Mr Jameson?” 

 

He held the phone away from his ear as it exploded with volume. A couple of tourists in cheap rain ponchos turned to look at the commotion as Peter recovered his hearing enough to make out what Jameson was saying. 

 

“Mr Jameson, sir, I’m really sorry, I-” 

 

He pulled the phone away again. The awning was still dented above that patisserie, where he had been thrown through it the previous week. Place that overpriced should able to afford to fix the canvas, really.  

 

“I know, sir, I’ll get straight on it the second I get home-” 

 

Pigeons scattered in fear of the indistinct roar. Peter sympathised.  

 

“I really can’t right now, sir, I’m about to go underground, I’m gonna-” 

 

Jameson’s voice was muffled by static. Peter held onto the phone dutifully, stammering platitudes, until three beeps announced the call failure.  

 

Every jostle in the crowd jarred Peter’s ribs. Battered notebook in hand, he pushed past his throbbing headache, determined to pull his grades back up from the hit they had taken when he had become Spider Man. Aunt May wouldn’t believe he had any kind of grant if he started backsliding now, and he didn’t want to disappoint Mr Stark.  

 

When he emerged in Queens a half hour later, the sky was already dark. He caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window as he stopped for the milk and grimaced. There was no way Aunt May would accept an accident had caused all that. It might buy him a little sympathy from Betty, though, if not Mr Jameson. Peter trudged through the rapidly dimming streets. His mind was racing ahead- past the lie he would cook up for Aunt May, switching rapidly between extra credit projects and finding Jameson a scoop to secure his place at the Bugle. His Spider Man shots had won him a trial place, but he wouldn’t last as a one-trick pony. And he needed something for the grant Mr Stark had offered him- it would make Aunt May suspicious if he took too long to go through with it, and he didn’t want to let Mr Stark down with second-rate work. Even if all his recent projects had been spidey-related, there must have been something that wouldn’t completely blow his identity.  

 

All thoughts of the battle in Germany and Captain Rogers’ earnest desperation slipped his mind entirely, camouflaged by the urgent haze of planning.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to [this](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Stark_Tower) wiki, Stark Tower is right by Columbus Circle. 
> 
> Also, if you're wondering, I'm writing on the assumption that Peter is a regular or semi-regualr contributor to the Daily Bugle. He's freelancing for some extra cash, not a staff photographer. 
> 
> Next chapter, some actual plot happens.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes to school, takes up dumpster diving, and pairs up with Daredevil. In that order.

Peter skittered over the polished lino, his cheap sneakers catching and sliding over the tiles. He thunked into his seat a feather-weight before the bell shrilled.  

 

"Sleep through the alarm?" Ned asked, leaning over the edge of his desk. Peter snorted. He hadn’t slept through anything since the bite, and the paper-thin walls of his apartment hadn’t helped with his predicament. 

 

The teacher entered before Peter could pull together a response, pulling out the register to take attendance. He wasn’t even the latest that day, as Liz Allen dredged herself in through the classroom door well after his own name had been called.  

 

“Sorry, Sir,” Liz muttered, flopping into her desk with a distinct air of exhaustion. “I got held up at work.” She scowled down at her ink-stained fingers. “Had to bin like eight costumes.” 

 

“Fascinating. Perhaps you could elaborate on your own time.” The teacher stood briskly, stuffing the notices into the recycling. “All right, all of you, get to class.” 

 

Losing Ned in the humming crowd of chatter, Peter managed to corner Liz by her locker. He slouched against the wall, grinning awkwardly.  

 

“Hey, Liz?” 

 

Liz turned a little too fast, overbalancing and grabbing Peter’s arm for support. He steadied her.  

 

“You okay?” 

 

“Oh, Peter, hi. I’m fine. Fine.” She juggled her textbooks over one arm, trying to shut her locker. “Did you need something?” 

 

“No, I was just…” Peter gestured vaguely towards a random staircase, and hoped Liz didn’t know his next class was in the opposite direction. “So, how come you were so late?” 

 

She flushed. “Oh, I was at work. And aren’t you, like, always way later?” 

 

"Hey, not always! And you work in a theater right? So, what kept you there?” 

 

“Oh, god, right, so I was mending a rip in one of the costumes for this dance troupe, right? That are performing today, and so I need to get this done before school. And their costumes are all white, right? And then like a total klutz, I reached up to get a fresh spool, and wham! Red dye all over the costume. I had to round up every costumer who was in already and try to get a new costume to the right measurements and I had to leave for school, and if they don’t have the new one done my the performance I am so screwed…” 

 

Peter laughed. “So, I guess you had to throw out the old costume then.” 

 

“Well, yeah.” Liz frowned. “Wh-” 

 

“Great talk, do it again some time, gotta get to class!” Peter darted back into the swell of students, leaving Liz blinking confusedly in his direction.  

 

... 

 

By the time he saw her again at lunch, Liz had apparently forgotten his odd behaviour. They exchanged a brief smile as they passed between tables in the cafeteria.  

 

"I’m telling you, there’s something there,” Ned insisted.  

 

Peter snorted. “Yeah, no. We took swimming lessons in elementary together, there’s no way she’s interested after seeing that horror show.” 

 

Ned plonked his tray down on the table with a self-righteous clunk. “You should ask her out! Just cause I’m not getting any, doesn’t mean you can’t.” 

“No, the fact that I can’t means that I can’t.” Peter eyed him suspiciously. “Didn’t you have a date last week?” 

 

“Last week, yeah. This week, no.” 

 

“Sucks.” 

 

Ned glared at him. “I can really feel the sympathy. It’s like, radiating off you. I’m so glad to have you here for me in this trying time.” 

 

“Do you want me to write a poem?” 

 

“Piss off, Parker.” Ned sat back, prodding at his meal with a fork. “Is this even meat?” 

 

Peter ignored him in favour of his phone, not touching his own food. His head lolled forwards over the screen. He allowed the voices in the cafeteria to fade to a disoriented buzz, his eyes squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights. Ever since the bite, he had taken to keeping the brightness level of his screen at a minimum, his eyesight easily able to pick out the lettering of the notice.  

 

From: [vpei@bugle.com](mailto:vpei@bugle.com)  

To: [ccooper@bugle.com](mailto:ccooper@bugle.com), [eedwards@bugle.com](mailto:eedwards@bugle.com), [septing@bugle.com](mailto:septing@bugle.com), [mmayhew@bugle.com](mailto:mmayhew@bugle.com), [dmorton@yoohoo.com](mailto:dmorton@yoohoo.com), [peter.parker@osmail.com](mailto:peter.parker@osmail.com), [qualeng@starkmail.com](mailto:qualeng@starkmail.com),  [reevesphotos@yoohoo.com](mailto:reevesphotos@yoohoo.com), [bill.webb@yoohoo.com](mailto:bill.webb@yoohoo.com), [williams.sarah@starkmail.com](mailto:williams.sarah@starkmail.com), [angieyin@osmail.com](mailto:ayin@osmail.com), [photosbybroom@osmail.com](mailto:photosbybroom@osmail.com), [zimmerphotography@yoohoo.com](mailto:zimmerphotography@yoohoo.com),  

Cc: [tmarvelli@bugle.com](mailto:tmarvelli@bugle.com), [csedlmeier@bugle.com](mailto:csedlmeier@bugle.com), [dbuckley@bugle.com](mailto:dbuckley@bugle.com) 

RE: Spider Man Photos Wanted 

 

Calling all staff photographers and regular contributors,  

 

Clean quality photos of “Spider-Man" sought. No video stills, reprints, or low-visibility shots. The Bugle is seeking high-quality photos of the vigilante, preferably in a New York setting though photos taken elsewhere may be considered.  

 

Due to the rarity of clean Spider-Man shots, the Bugle’s photo desk is doubling our typical rates for a short time only. Any freelancers submitting pictures under this offer are advised to include a CV.  

 

Victor Pei 

Assistant Photography Editor 

 

 … 

 

Later that evening, Peter sat cross-legged on his bed, examining the spandex he had reclaimed from the bins behind Liz’s theater. The red wasn’t an exact match for his costume, but it shouldn’t matter too much for the undersides of his hands and feet.  

He had already taken apart the suit Mr Stark had given him. He had felt a little guilty cannibalising it, but the parts had been exactly what he needed to blend the webshooters into the fabric over his wrists. Spandex was much better suited to the job. Not nearly as durable, sure, but this and flexible enough to let him grip and stick to whatever surface presented itself in the heat of the moment. The thicker soles had been fine for wall-crawling, but fallen significantly short when asked to grip sheer metal or glass.  

 

Peter had his own theories about that, but they would have to wait. The various muggers who had witnessed Spider-Man scrabbling desperately for purchase on their windscreens weren’t going to care whether micro-hairs or organic residues were to blame.  

 

The needle, he had purloined from Aunt May. The one he had used to throw his original costume together was thin and breakable, not up to punching through Mr Stark’s heavier fabric. Claiming he wanted to patch together a pair of old converse, Peter had sought May’s advice, and returned triumphant with a needle the width of a dandelion stem. Even so, it required a fair amount of effort behind his superior strength to run it home, leaving a trail of neat, tiny stitches along a seam, invisible to the unenhanced eye, between Starktech and dance troupe reject.  

 

Peter held his work up critically. He had stitched his clothes up before, but never with this level of precision and coordination. Huh. Maybe this thrill of satisfaction was got people like Liz hooked on it.  

 

And for god’s sake, Peter, never say that aloud. Like you don’t get enough trouble from Flash as it is.  

 

Peter tugged his costume on, flexing gingerly, and leapt through the window for his patrol. He shot of a web, anchored himself against the corner of the next building. Following the momentum of his swing, Peter changed his grip, leaving a better angle for the camera he had secreted on a corner of the roof, under a satellite. Swung back, still in front of the camera as it revolved on its motorised turntable.  

 

The chill wind carried a scream to his ears from distant shores. 

 

“Okay, then, guess the show’s over,” Peter grumbled. He fired off another web, and threw himself towards Manhattan.  

 

... 

 

Daredevil was already on the scene when Peter arrived, the distant shore in question being the docks of Hell’s Kitchen. The red horns were just visible in the scrum of fighters, all oblivious as Peter swung down between them and the last fleeing woman.  

 

 _Cinched the landing._ _Web her_ _up. Move on._  

“So, is the green hoodie some kinda uniform, or did you all just show up in the same outfit?” 

 

 _Now duck and roll and_ _leap into the fray._ _Shove him back, then aim, fire!_  

 

“Man, that’s embarrassing, right?” 

 

 _Throw him- not too hard! Dodge, grab-stick-pull, rinse, repeat._  

 

“Then again, I think picking a green hoodie as a uniform might actually be more embarrassing. You couldn’t even get a logo printed?” It’s almost easy, clearing a path for the Devil to break free. Spider-Man webs another smuggler against the wall before he can escape, reaches down to brace Daredevil as he manhandles the last one into a pinhold.  

 

 “You talk too much,” says the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.  

 

Peter shrugs. “It’s a character flaw.” 

 

The pinned smuggler mumbles incoherently.  

 

“Oh, shut up,” Peter grouses. “Unless this guys wants you to talk. You want him to talk?” 

 

“Where’s the boy?” Daredevil growls.  

 

Peter stiffens. He’s paired up with Daredevil twice before, both on the kind of  smuggling cases that happen every night on the docks. A kidnapping might be a little out of his league.  

 

The smuggler spits insults at Daredevil, who shakes him roughly and repeats the question. Peter backs off, leaving the vigilante to his work. Daredevil has more experience, after all. Peter will be of more use watching his back, or webbing up the unconscious thugs.  

 

The decision has nothing to do with the sudden curl of nausea in his gut when Daredevil crushes the man’s nose against his knee.  

 

Through a river of blood, he spits out an address. The Devil knocks him out against a crate and drops him, turning to Spider-Man.  

 

“You don’t have to come,” he says.  

 

Peter scowls, despite the mask rendering the gesture futile. “You said it was a kid?” 

 

“He’s eleven.” 

 

“Then I’m coming.” 

 

“Then keep up.” Daredevil vaults up onto the base of a crane and tears off. Peter fires off a webline and follows, heart hammering at his throat.  

 

He doesn’t know Hell’s Kitchen half as well as Daredevil seems to- Peter has to react to chimney stacks and satellite dishes that Daredevil seems to know are there well before they become visible in the gloom, even with the new mask. A block away from their destination, Daredevil draws to a halt and raises a hand to signal Peter down.  

 

Spider-Man lands silently beside him.  

 

"They’re in there,” Daredevil explains. “On the sixth floor. Third window from the left.” 

 

Spider-Man eyes the building- still under construction on the upper levels, the blinds drawn on the indicated window. Doesn’t ask if he’s sure.  

 

“What do you want me to do?” 

 

Daredevil eyes him, assessing. “I’ll handle the kidnappers. You get the kid out of the way. I’d scare him.” 

 

“What’s his name?” Peter asks on impulse. Daredevil tilts his head, considering.  

 

“Jason. Wait here, I’ll go in from the roof.” He moves to leave- 

 

“Wait!” Peter pulls forward, but makes no move to actually grab him. The Devil halts.  

 

“Yes?” 

 

“They’ll be expecting you, not me. I’ll take you in through the window.” 

 

Daredevil eyes him thoughtfully. “Think you can carry me?” 

 

 _A bus. A metal arm. A man the size of a tower block._ “Yeah.” 

 

“Do it.” 

 

Peter has carried passengers before, if not for this purpose. There’s no way to prepare Daredevil for the awkward position, really, so Peter opts to just sweep him up into a half-fireman’s carry as he flings himself off the roof.  

 

He can feel Daredevil tensing as they approach the window, even with his back to it, and curls forwards to shield him from the spray of glass. He lands too heavily, winding himself feels Daredevil spring up off his back.  

 

 _Jason._  

 

Peter forces himself to his feet and scrambles across the wall towards Jason, thrashing in the grip of a kidnapper as he fumbles to open the door one-handed. The others occupied with Daredevil, it’s easy enough for Peter to drop down on him, kick the gun aside and wrestle for a few heady, panicked moments before he can push Jason clear and web the door shut with the kidnapper glued against the jam.  

 

Peter casts about, spot Jason huddling into a corner. He crouches down, carefully positioned between the boy and the melee.  

 

“Hi, Jason,” he says, reaching out an arm cautiously. “Wanna get out of here?” 

 

Teary brown eyes blink at him. Peter crouches down further, careful not to make his contortions too inhuman. Doesn’t move as the boy touches his outstretched hand.  

 

Jason nods. Just slow enough not to startle the boy, Peter pulls him into his arms and makes for the window, ignoring the sounds of more brutes battering down the door. Daredevil has it covered.  

 

He touches down on the roof with Jason, right where he had taken off.  

 

"Are you alright, kid?" 

 

Jason shakes his head, breath coming in panicky stutters.  

 

Peter amends his question. “Are you hurt? I can take you to doctor, or we can wait for Daredevil to get out so he can take you back to whoever’s looking for you.” He laughs sheepishly. “I really should have asked him about that. Between you and me, though, I think he’s gonna be more annoyed I didn’t ask whether he was okay with being cradled in my arms like that. I don’t think he’s the touchy-feely type.” 

 

The comment shocks a brittle laugh out of Jacob. Peter grins.  

 

“My arm hurts. But I want to go home.”  

 

“We can arrange that.” 

 

Peter almost jumps out of his skin- apparently his spider-sense doesn’t consider ‘ninja-induced heart failure’ a valid threat.  

 

“I’ll take him home,” Daredevil says. “You should get back to Queen’s.” 

 

"Wh- How do you know- I mean, what makes you think I live in Queen’s?” Peter yelps, completely forgetting to disguise his voice.  

 

Daredevil stares at him.  

 

“Not that convincing?” Peter asks ruefully.  

 

“…No.” 

 

Peter sighs. “Get him home safe, Daredevil.” 

 

“I will.” Daredevil picks Jason up carefully, rubbing a soothing hand over his back. “And be careful, Spider-Man.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Jason’s mother is… enhanced. Those guys were supposed to be sneaking them out of the country, but they thought they could make better use of her abilities.” 

 

Peter swallowed through a suddenly dry throat. “What was she trying to get away from?” 

 

“They say they’re putting us on a list. And most of us aren’t willing to bet our lives it will stop there.” 

 

Daredevil jumped over the side of the building before Peter could react. 

 

“You know, after most people drop a bombshell like that, they stick around to explain themselves,” he called over to the next roof.  

 

 _Be careful_ , huh? 

 

How were they even planning to find people to go on this list? Peter hadn’t told anyone. He was willing to bet Daredevil hadn’t. What kind of madman would go ahead and tell the world exactly what brand of freak they were? 

 

 _Well_.  

 

Firing off a new line, Peter swung back over the river.  

 

Stark Tower loomed over the hazy city lights. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter carefully doesn't steal printer ink, but does spend a lot of time worrying.

_Maybe changing the cartridge holder would help?_

 

Peter scowls down at his patchwork printer, considering his box of spare parts under the bookcase. Isn't printer ink more expensive than human blood, ounce for ounce? Jameson might be hoping he'd tap a vein. There isn't likely to be a more sensible reason for asking for prints in this century. 

 

_Prints. Honestly._

 

The printer is taunting him. The little lights over the CYMK flicker when he taps them, too much force, before settling upon green, green, red, green. Is it really necessary to have so much red on the spidey suit? It might look just as good in black and white.

 

There are three out of four prints on the desk. The clock ticks, shuddering, towards noon. The scent of vegetable stock and hard cheese drifts through from the kitchen, making Peter cringe. Three out of four prints. 

 

"Peter, come and get it!" May calls through. 

 

He shuffles the photos neatly into their envelope and tucks it into his camera bag, then leaves it on the desk while he goes through to the living room. May's gratin is hot and filling, and the cheapest recipe she knows. It sits on the table, glaring at him. 

 

"It looks like I'm going to get some real cash today," Peter offers. 

 

May tries not to look relieved, but her shoulders slump minutely and her tone is carefully neutral. "That's good, Peter, I'm glad you're doing so well."

 

"Thanks." He swallows, rather than continue talking through a mouthful of rice, when he catches May's disapproving look. "What about you, how's work?"

 

She shrugs. "Work's work. Maisie, the typist, you know, got engaged last weekend, so there's a party planned. If you'd like to come?"

 

"Uh, when's it gonna be?" Peter has definitely promised himself, several times, that he'll spend more time with May. 

 

"Next Sunday. Unless you never want to see Brooklyn again?"

 

Peter laughed. "I really don't think I'm scarred for life, Aunt May."

 

May laughs, stands to gather their plates. Peter stops her and does it himself, before slipping back into his room to pick up his bag. He calls over his shoulder to May, then rushes out of the door. 

 

***

 

Okay, maybe Jameson's old-fashioned jouranlism isn't always a bad thing. Turning in hard copies might be a pain, but the feeling of crisp bills between his fingers is _awesome_. All the better knowing this his actual commission will be transferred in the early hours of tomorrow morning. 

 

He almost collides with Betty, coming around the corner as he approaches the art desk. Her ring binder slips from her fingers and into his, as he dips down to catch it before it hits the ground. Tucking his money back in his jeans pocket, he offers it back to her. 

 

"Sorry, Peter," Betty says. Her grin twitched even further up her face. Her hair bounced up from its ponytail to sway about her shoulders.  "Little overexcited."

 

"Payday for you too, huh?" Peter asks. They begin to walk together through the bustling offices. 

 

"Got a story," she bounces. "Take it you got the Spidey commission, then?"

 

He nods. "What are you working on?"

 

"Opinion piece. Follow-up to Dupres' piece on Captain Rogers going rogue. I saw the photos, you know, they're really good. All the other ones we got are pretty blurry, you know." She drums her fingers against the file. 

 

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, I live in Queens, Spidey swings right by my building some nights." _Or most nights, as the case may be._ "How much coffee have you had?"

 

Betty shrugs, which probably means quite a lot of coffee. "I was up all night doing research, and I've spent all day writing. It's my first writing assignment that's really interesting, you know?"

 

"Yeah?" If she says 'you know' one more time, he might have to stage an intervention. Though, going by the pulse he can see jumping in her neck, calling an ambulance might be more appropriate. 

 

"Uh-huh." She nods, setting another coil of hair loose over her brow. "I mean, technically, he did go rogue, but once you look into it, the legality of the Accords starts to look _really_ shady. You know the Avengers didn't even hear about them until literally three days before they had to sign?"

 

Peter stops. "Sorry,  _what?_ "

 

Oblivious to the way his heart is jackhammering in his ears, Betty nods. "Right? So they weren;t given any option to debate, or negotiate terms, and I think that's why Cap and his team went rogue. So, I managed to talk to a lawyer who's been looking into the terms of the Accords, and it turns out he was totally right to be leery- there's a ton of minor clauses in there that haven't made the press about law enforcement dealing with powered individuals- and even the official press statements say that the rogue Avengers are being held at a maximum security prison without legal representation. And if-" She stops, frowning. "Wasn't that your door?"

 

Peter blinks, looks back over his shoulder. Art desk, right. "Uh, yeah," he manages to mumble, turning back. "I'll, uh, see you around."

 

He steps into the art room, where the bright colours of photos arrest him from every surface. As he approaches the desk, one leaps out at him with all the force of an off-railed tram. Himself, in a car park in Germany, clutching Captain America's shield. 

 

***

 

Apparently, having literal sticky fingers helps a lot when sneaking material out of your place of work. Peter offers to drop a few proofs off on his way out, leans over the desk with a tugging grin and a stock line about Jamesons' bad mood keeping him out of the office. 

 

His fingertips brush innocently over the papers. Even out of the corner of his eye, he can read the titles. Research on the Accords slides off the desk and into his camera bag. Reads them in a toilet cubicle, and then slips them into the in-tray of someone whose name might easily have been mistaken for Betty's. 

 

Peter hurries out of work, nerves jittering through his limbs. Checks his watch. He slips around the back of a seafood restaurant, clambers over the dumpsters, and pulls himself up onto the roof human-style. He pauses to wait for a warning pulse of his spidey sense before pulling on his costume and stuffing his civvies behind a chimney stack. Pretty early on in the whole Spider-Man affair, he learnt that smoky, fishy roofs tend to be disturbed by traceurs less often. 

 

He hurls himself up into the skyline, scanning the streets. 

 

_you' _re wrong_ , but _you think you_ ' _re right__

 

Almost without having to think, he swoops down on a mugging. He webs the attacker to the wall, guides the businessman to safer streets and leaves him to call the police. 

 

_Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes_

 

Catches a sofa free-falling from an apartment block window. Can't bring himself to make the Looney Tunes jokes queuing up on his tongue. Spins wildly over the bridge. 

 

_three days' notice_

 

The sky dims above him. Streetlights start to come on. He should have gone home by now. Peter halts a car thief, strings him up from a lamppost for the cops to find. Veers wildly back to avoid Hell's Kitchen. 

 

_a list, orders from on high, alien contagion_

 

He lands. It's never a good sign when the highlight of your day is deciding to pick a fight with a billionaire. But-

 

_high tech whirring corrects his vision_

 

He told him. Responsibility. Stark knew why he was there. Stark knew why Peter was there. Why hadn't Peter?

 

_most of us aren’t willing to bet our lives it will stop there_

 

He really should get home. But nobody ever claimed Peter knew when to back down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a couple of days late, I've come down with the a throat infection and had to spend half the week in bed. I can make up for it! Next chapter will be up on Monday, as per my schedule, plus I have 3-4 AOS fics to post over the weekend that just want editing. 
> 
> If you're wondering, [this](https://cookingonabootstrap.com/2015/03/07/courgette-tomato-and-cheese-gratin-33p-microwave-vegetarian/) is the gratin May and Peter are eating in this chapter. It tastes great, really gooey and tomatoey, and it's a bloody godsend when you have no money.
> 
> Traceurs is the term for parkour practitioners (the feminine form is traceuse). [ Here ](http://www.nerdfitness.com/blog/2010/08/12/the-definitive-guide-to-parkour-for-beginners/) is a good resource on starting parkour, if you're interested. NYC is popular with practitioners, though some say the architecture lends itself to the sport less well than European cities like Paris, where the sport originated. 
> 
> Peter's spider-sense does indeed warn him when someone is watching his change in and out of his costume, or if he's in view of a camera.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to see Tony, and Peter makes a decision with some help from a vigilante who seems to know everything that happens in his patch.

Tony drums his fingertips against the desktop. He has to lean over to do so- the only downside of holograms, as far as he is concerned, is their inability to produce the satisfying click of anxious tapping on a monitor.

He should work on that. FRIDAY’s voice is great, but there’s a definite lack of sound effects in his workshop. And Rhodey would probably appreciate the humour of it, if he gets back in the suit.

When he gets back in the suit. And, no, by appreciate, Tony means-

Other tapping. This one at the window. Tony jolts around, his arm whipping up to wield an absent repulsor. The glaring red and blue of the Spider-Kid’s costume hangs steadily over the drop, clinging to the glass like it’s nothing. So much for the kid’s worries about the thickness of Tony’s fabric. With tech, at least, he knows what he’s doing. Tony says as much as he unlatches a window to let the kid in.

Peter glances cautiously up at the corners of the room, as if Tony would ever leave his security cameras visible. Shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

“What’s the problem, kid?” he asks.

Stiffened shoulders, mask still on. Peter gives an audible hiss of breath, and then- “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?” Tony’s expression doesn’t falter, but his minds races back to his every interaction with the kid. Only a few over a short period, this should be obvious probably but- “If this is about the grant, I did say you’d still need to produce a project for me to fund even after the fight.”

Peter’s hands twitched up, as if he wanted to pull off his mask but didn’t dare. The eyeholes whirr and shift. Tony squints in thought, not sure whether they were reacting to the lights in his office or if the kid was scowling at him.

Peter shook his head. “About the fight. You said- you said Captain Rogers was wrong, Mr Stark.”

Oh, God, he must have heard about Rhodes, or worse, he’s gotten himself injured when he was relying on Starktech to keep him going- “Look, kid, if you’re having some kind of freak-out, I promise you were never in any real danger, the suit-”

“That’s not the issue!” Peter snaps, then pulls back as if shocked by the sound of his own voice. Tony looks down and sees his own fist, clenched and pulled back.

Forces himself to relax. “Okay, maybe you could tell me what’s bothering you here?”

“Mr Stark, I…” Peter stops.

Tony tries again. “If you’re upset about lying to your aunt, I know how that can be, you know, the whole superheroics clashing with the real world. I’d be happy to come over and explain to her what good work you’re-”

“No!” Peter jerks forwards to catch Tony’s are where he was turning back to his work. Tony jolts, tries to yank back his arm. The kid’s grip might even be stronger than Rogers’-

“Get the hell off me,” Tony snaps, cutting off whatever the kid was saying.

Peter drops his arm like a red-hot poker. “Mr Stark, why didn’t you tell me what was really going on?”

The kid’s voice is deadly serious. Tony frowns. “I told you everything you needed to know?”

“No, you told me everything that would get me to fight for you,” Peter said. His voice shakes and stutters, but he ploughs on. “Forget the suit, or the mo-, uh, the grant, if I’d known how the other Avengers were being jerked around I would never have sided with you!”

Tony reels back. “What?”

First Steve, then Clint and Wanda, even Tasha- now this upstart kid thinks they know better than-

Tony cuts his thoughts off before they can go an inch further. The UN know what they’re doing. He’s putting his faith in objectivity. Reason.

And the kid is watching Tony with his head ducked, while he wrestles for a response.

“You said you had a responsibility,” he manages. “I thought that meant you were mature enough to understand. I guess I was wrong.”

Peter shakes his head, hard. “I didn’t- I meant, that having powers other people don’t means I have to, to work harder, to pay more attention, to really think about things, so that I always do the right thing. And I didn’t do that. I just followed you.”

Tony’s heart, the flesh and blood one that used to be walled off behind the staunch solidity of the reactor, pangs. Following his lead just never seems to work out for people, huh.

The kid is still talking, babbling, even, the way he had in the fight- “I don’t, it’s not like I’m, I mean, that’s on me. I should have done my research, I just. Um.”

Tony is suddenly very glad not to be able to see Peter’s face. “I get it,” he says coldly. “You made the mistake of listening to my judgement.”

Peter flinches. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in here and-”

“Damn right you shouldn’t have!” Tony never should have brought the kid into this. He’s too young, has no idea what he’s doing, going to get himself killed and it’ll be on Tony’s head.

“I-”

“No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have involved you.” This much, he can put right. “Get out of here. And I don’t want to see you in that suit again, you hear me?”

The kid stumbles back, halts as if to speak, and then dashes for the window in a frantic skitter.

Good. As long as the kid stays off the streets, Tony won’t have to look at him with the same hollow ache he feels when he looks at Rhodey.

***

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid_

Peter could probably swing past six bank heists and a school on fire, and he wouldn’t notice. He overreaches, veering wildly towards the glass side of an office block, barely rights himself. The correction sends him too high, until he lands, skidding and tumbling, on a block of flats.

_Stupid!_

Why the hell had he gone to Stark like that? Maybe Stark had been wrong about the Accords, that didn’t change what he’d done for Peter, the suit, the grant, he hadn’t told Aunt May a thing.

_I don’t want to see you in that suit again._

The part of Peter that had pulled him to the tower had _shrieked_ at that, shouted its outrage from the rooftops- _‘Or what? Says who? Who are you to stop me from protecting my city?’_

The rest of Peter had pulled him from the room before a word could escape. Now he stops for breath, collapses against the low stone rim of the roof. _Or what_ indeed, Stark had made perfectly clear or what, his threat to tell Aunt May might snarl and rankle in his chest but its potency rings clear as a bell in Peter’s ears.

 _Says who_ , he asks, like he doesn’t know _who_ , like who be anyone other than _the man who gave it to you._

He does owe Stark, he knows it, but he didn’t think about that before he went in. Clearly Stark hasn’t forgotten.

A soft wind gusts over him, curling around his shoulders like a cape. It carries the scent of polluted river water and fresh bread, the distant sound of voices and further distant sirens. His home.

The Avengers are Stark’s business. Peter can refuse to get involved, maybe should have before. Stark can turf him out of that world, easy. Can take away the grant, the suit, the unspoken promise of secrecy. He can’t take away this.

Stark doesn’t get that. He thinks his threats and bribes can pull Peter into line, but Peter made that mistake once. He could have really hurt one of the Avengers, impossible as it seems, and that would have been on him.

He thumps a hand against the rooftop, hard enough to bruise his palm. _Idiot_.

“You’re going to give yourself a broken arm,” says Daredevil, behind him.

Peter scrambles halfway to his feet before he places the voice, and turns to face him. Glancing over at the next building, he recognises a Hell’s Kitchen apartment building. “Don’t suppose that’d stop you giving me a heart attack?”

“You should have heard me coming.” Daredevil doesn’t move.

“Distracted,” Peter admits, and then stops before he can embarrass himself any more. “There- something going on? Need a helping hand from your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man?”

Daredevil looks about as impressed with the line as Peter feels. “This isn’t your neighbourhood.”

Peter gestures vaguely towards the sun, hanging low in the sky like an overweight yoyo. “I thought Little Devils were still in bed.”

“I was in the area. I heard you.”

“Really?” Peter asks, his interest rearing up over his personal black cloud. He can’t hear a thing in any of the floors below within his heightened earshot, and he hadn’t been making a great deal of noise. “How good is your hearing, man?”

“That’s not important.” It’s the same voice as before, speaking to the child they rescued.

Peter’s shoulders hunch up against his bidding. “I’m not a child!” he snaps.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Sorry,” Peter says. Daredevil is still watching him studiously. Peter sighs and leans forwards on his haunches. “I- I think I fucked up.”

“What happened?” Daredevil sits down, maintaining his distance from Peter carefully.

“Uh. You know I was in the fight, in Germany, after everything that happened with the Accords?” Peter asks.

Daredevil nods.

“Well, I guess I- I mean, Mr Stark, Iron Man, he just… Showed up. Said he was doing the right thing, and he needed my help. I thought I was doing the right thing, but!” Peter doesn’t so much cut himself off, as realise in mid-sentence that he has nowhere to go with it.

Daredevil waits a moment for him to continue, then sighs. “You don’t think he was doing the right thing?”

“Well, no!” Peter snaps. He winces. “I’m sorry, I just. If I’d known what was going on, if I’d bothered to look at it for myself, I never would have been there. And, half the Avengers are missing or in prison, I heard War Machine’s never gonna work again- I could have stopped it.”

“Could you?” Daredevil’s voice is as implacable as ever.

Peter pulls his thoughts into formation. “I mean, I can’t know that. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t have. I made the wrong call.”

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

Peter blinks. Daredevil’s question hangs in the air between them. “What?”

“You got it wrong. You want to ignore it, or do something about it?” Daredevil repeats.

“I don’t…” Peter hasn’t thought about it like that. It makes sense. “What can I do?”

Daredevil doesn’t move, but manages to convey a flat stare without even an attempt to make eye contact. “You do realise you’ve told me absolutely nothing about your predicament, right?”

“Oh.” Peter stands and begins to pace, deep in thought. “I guess- I can’t carry on doing what I’m doing. Not like nothing’s wrong. This is my mess, I should fix it.”

He stops, and turns to face Daredevil. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I think I know what to do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I actually feel really bad for Tony here. He's trying really hard to do the responsible thing, and failing dismally. 
> 
> Originally, Rhodey was supposed to be around for this, but apparently having someone around who cares about him leads to a lot less foot-in-mouth-syndrome from Tony. So, somehow Rhodey got replaced with Daredevil reappearing in the second part. 
> 
> Why is Daredevil here? Well, I challenge you to watch a vigilante you're pretty certain is an actual child career wildly off-course past your place of work without giving your coworkers a shoddy excuse and running up to check up on him. And, you know, helping him develop a guilt complex to go with your own. Like, seriously, Matt, chill. 
> 
> Also, yes, this is late. In my defence, I'm uploading it from a freaking iPhone because I have no wifi. Next up is the final chapter, in which Peter tries to clear up himself- or Tony Stark as the case may be.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to out-stubborn Steve Rogers. Good luck with that.

He doesn’t tell Aunt May where he’s going. If Stark decides to tell her after all, Peter would rather be as far off as possible. Betty agrees to cover for him, with a fake assignment from the Bugle. He should probably find out what it is, before he gets back. 

 

He does leave a note, though, tucked neatly into the corner of his pillowcase where she’ll find it when she does the laundry on Tuesday. If he isn’t back by then, it’s probably too late for it to matter. Before he can back out, Peter slips up to the roof and changes into his costume, standing at the edge ready to fire a webline. 

 

He falters. The fight in Germany was the first time Peter had left New York in years. He trusts Daredevil to keep the city safe. He doesn’t like to leave Hell’s Kitchen, but he will if the situation is dire enough. As for the scattering of muggings and car crashes that will go on without Peter there to stop them…

 

Well. He has to do this. He’ll just- try to be back in the city as soon as possible. Maybe stay out a little later in future, to balance it out. He hasn’t needed as much sleep since the bite. 

 

_ Stop stalling.  _ Cheap spandex clings awkwardly to his sweat-slicked skin. The sky is tinted grey by his thick swimming goggles. Peter raises an arm, and hurls himself off the edge of the building. 

 

***

 

Steve slips into the compound in the dead of night. The first guard goes down easy, slumping without so much as a gasp to alert his colleagues. Steve palms his com link and moves on into the main building with his back to the wall. He had a little help getting the blueprints, but he’s alone for the infiltration. 

 

Footsteps. Steve slips back out of sight as the guard approaches. Then  _ step out, grab, cover his mouth, slide back _ and leave the unconscious man tucked out of sight. He continues to the stairs, climbs them, and then freezes. 

 

Another soldier in his path, as expected, but this one is out of comission already. Steve approaches cautiously to examine the white sheet pinning him to the wall and covering his mouth, and then bites back a curse. 

 

Cobwebs. And nearby, an open window. The guards eyes track Steve helplessly as he cases the ceiling. The damn spider is here. Probably not alone. 

 

They must have guessed Steve’s next objective- which, admittedly, is entirely predictable. He eyes the window. 

 

No. No going back now. Doubling his guard, Steve continues towards his intended destination. He doesn’t encounter another soldier, until he reaches the door to the head office. Another one, cobwebbed to the wall and gagged. 

 

Steve hasn’t heard a peep over the com. He pulls a gun out of his belt, and kicks the door, anticipating the thick web holding it shut. It takes two blows to break the barricade, and Steve shoulders through, folding to get his back to the wall immediately. 

 

The spider must have been hunched over the computer when Steve arrived. Now he clings halfway up the wall above it, one arm aimed for Steve. 

 

A heartbeat’s pause. 

 

“Queens,” Steve greets. 

 

The kid lowers his arm slowly. “Captain America. Uh. Do I still call you that when you’re in your civvies? Or is it Captain Rogers?”

 

“Who else is here?” Steve demands. Not letting him stall. 

 

“It’s just me,” he insists. “And I’m pretty sure I’m here for the same reason you are. I mean, probably. You are still a Captain, right? I mean I really don’t think I could call you Mr Rogers with a straight face, you know?”

 

Not lowering his weapon, Steve sidles along the wall until he has the door and the spider both in his sights. “Get down off the wall with your hands behind your head.”

 

“Yessir.” He leaps down in a quick, fluid move that almost has Steve jumping to attack, but straightens up and laces his fingers on the back of his neck. “Look, if you check the computer screen, you’ll see I’m telling the truth. I swear. I know I-”

 

He breaks off as Steve approaches. Steve has no intention of using the gun at this point, has it aimed a little to the left of the man, but the deterrent it presents may well be the only thing stopping him from calling for backup. Without dropping his guard, Steve stoops a little to look at the computer screen. 

 

_ Ok.  _ Exactly what he had come here to find. Steve turns back to fully face the near-stranger, and then lowers his gun. 

 

“Oh, thank God,” he stutters out. “I mean, I think I could probably dodge a bullet, but you have really good reflexes and you’re really close and I think you probably  _ could _ shoot me, and I really don’t wanna die because of basically a misunderstanding.”

 

“Take it you had a change of heart?” Steve asks, before he can talk any more. 

 

The spider lowers his hands tentatively. “I- I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I had no idea what was really going on, Captain Rogers, and I thought Mr Stark knew what he was doing, and- I really screwed up. I just wanted to fix that.”

 

“You came here alone?” Steve takes a better look at the kid as he nods, a little frantically. He’s not wearing the same costume as he had been in Germany. This looks cheaper, more makeshift. Steve has no idea how the kid can even see through those thick lenses. 

 

He must have noticed Steve looking, because he cuts himself off in mid-sentence to explain. “Mr Stark gave me the other one. We… came to blows. A little. I mean, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have-”

 

“Later,” Steve interrupts. “Is everything on that drive?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, unless you were looking for anything apart from the files that are on-screen, I didn’t really think beyond that, Captain Rogers.” 

 

Steve yanks out the drive and gestures to the kid to follow him to the exit. “Stick to the ceilings and follow me.  _ Quietly _ .”

 

Huh. So the kid can shut up for six solid seconds- he’d begun to wonder. In fact, they manage to get out of the complex without a single incident, following the same route Steve had taken in. The stolen com link doesn’t erupt with noise until they’re well out of the way, at which point Steve pulls it out and hurls it as hard as he can back towards the compound. 

 

He turns to his ally, who is still following him in silence along the side walls of buildings. He skitters back a little under Steve’s gaze. “Where are we going?” he asks, voice low. 

 

“I have a bolthole nearby. You’re coming with me.” Steve doesn’t stop walking. 

 

The kid nods quickly, and hurries to catch up. No longer afraid that Tony or Vision will swoop down from the sky, Steve takes a moment to consider the odd, scuttling movement of the wall-crawl. Definitely like a spider. And judging from the cheap, nylon-y texture of the new costume, the ability isn’t coming from a suit. What exactly has Tony brought into this mess? Steve isn’t completely caught up on the 21st Century, but he’s fairly certain he would have heard about a tribe of spider-people living in Queens. 

 

The thought startles Steve into a laugh as he turns into the construction site he’s been camping out in. Bucky would have made a joke at that- something about knowing that those Queens folks weren’t human to begin with. 

 

Probably something funnier. Steve forces himself to unclench his fists and turn to the stranger, facing him across a pile of rubble. 

 

“You know my name, son,” he says. “How about you tell me yours?”

 

“Um. They’ve been calling me Spider-Man?” he offers, shifting awkwardly. “I mean, with a hyphen, and a capital ‘m’ kinda thing. Not, like, ‘Spiderman’, as in, the surname. That’s not my surname. Because, wow, that would be a pretty impressive case study in favour of nominative determinism-”

 

“That’s not your name,” Steve says. It’s probably just as well that he’s had time to grow accustomed to Scott before the fight, because he’s starting to suspect that Spider-Man doesn’t have the need to breathe. 

 

Spider-Man hesitates, then- “I’m Peter,” he says, in a hurried rush. “And that’s all that I’m really comfortable telling you, and it’s not that I don’t trust you, Captain Rogers, but I trusted Mr Stark and he threatened to tell my A- tell someone who I was, and I make a lot of enemies doing this and I don’t want to put anyone in danger.”

 

“Peter,” Steve agrees. “That’s fine. How about you tell me what happened?”

 

Peter takes this as an invitation to get comfortable, contorted bizarrely over a half-built wall. “Not that much too it, Captain. I screwed up, and people are in trouble becauseof it. That means I have to fix it.”

 

“And you thought you could do that all by yourself?” Steve sits down by his pack. 

 

Peter shrugs. “You did, too. Unless you brought your invisible friend.”

 

“I’m Captain America. One-man missions are what I do.”  _ It didn’t use to be.  _

 

“But I can help!” Peter insists, scuttling forwards. “I have to do something to put this right. Otherwise what’s the point of being-”

 

“Enhanced?” Steve offers. “I figured last time that the sticking came from the suit. It looked pretty high-tech.”

 

And  _ there _ it is. A flinch. Whatever had happened between Peter and Tony, the kid was serious about it. 

 

Peter tries to cover for it. “No, that was mostly impact reduction and sensory control. It gave me a couple ideas on how to fix up a visor for this suit, but I haven’t really had the time to put them into practise-”

 

Steve decides against asking how an apparently normal New Yorker ended up able to climb glass and shoot cobwebs from his fingertips. “And if I’m not willing to take you with me?”

 

“The webs take seven hours to melt off, Captain Rogers, sir. That’s a pretty good head start.” Peter’s tone brooks no argument. 

 

Steve finds his lip curling upwards in a startled smile. “You’re pretty ballsy for such a little guy,” he says, sincere. “Alright. Let’s say I do take you with me. What do you bring to the table?”

 

Peter nods fervently. “You already know about the wall-crawling, and the webs, and I’m quicker and stronger than regular people. I think the sticking power is something to do with being able to manipulate the electro-static force between molecules, but I haven’t really been able to do any real stu-”

 

Steve hold up a hand. Not a soldier, right. “Bare bones version, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Oh. Uh. Sorry. Well, I have the proportional strength of a spider, I’m pretty sure. I can stick to anything. I think my memory’s improved? Like, I can remember the layouts from back in there  _ perfectly _ , I think. I also have, uh, perfect equilibrium? I think that’s connected to the sticking and increased agility, though. My reflexes are better, and I have this kind of,  _ sense _ when I’m in danger…”

 

Steve clocks the tactical information being relayed here, but  _ listens  _ to the way it’s delivered. A good half of it he had pieced together from seeing Peter in action, though he hadn’t known the extent. What catched his attention is he hesitancy, the tendency to track back on absolute statements. It doesn’t mesh with the occasional slip into the particular kind of technical jargon Steve had come to expect from Tony and Bruce, or other people who knew without a doubt that they were  _ the  _ expert in their field. Language that should have come from confidence. Peter was still balanced on his perch with the eerie stillness of an arachnid, only the slightest of movement visible where he breathed and moved his jaw. All grace and confidence in action, but jittering and stuttering the second he didn’t have a clear goal in sight. 

 

“How old are you, son?” Steve asks. 

 

Peter stutters to a halt. “What?”

 

“I’m  _ not _ going to take a child in there. Hell, I can’t believe  _ Tony- _ ”

 

“I think I already made clear, you don’t have a choice, Captain Rogers.” Now that Steve was sure, he could hear clearly the note of awe in Peter’s voice. 

 

“But you are a kid.”

 

Peter shook his head. “I’m not a  _ child _ ,” he insisted. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, I mean, I know what I’m doing. I took down your friends easily enough.”

 

“Then take of your mask.” Steve knows intimately the stubborn set of Peter’s shoulders. He’d worn it in a dozen enlistment offices. 

 

“No.” Peter draws back, ready to move. “This is my responsibility. I’m fixing this.”

 

Steve stands, in case this comes to blows, and readies himself for the stalemate that approaches with all the charging force of a freight train. 

 

***

 

Sam paces in the confines of his cell. He hears Lang’s steady drumbeat fall silent as a guard approaches, alerting him well before the armoured footsteps can be heard. 

 

Not that Sam has anything to hide, just yet. He continues as he was, treading out the six scant paces from bars to door and back. This is the night shift, he thinks. They never turn out the lights in the cells. Never turn on the main lights unless there’s a visitor. When he gets out of here, he’s going to have the worst jetlag of his life. 

 

The guard passes. Sam doesn’t give him so much as a second look. The footsteps fade in the distance and then stop- a pace or two too early. 

 

Sam turns back around and approaches the front of the cell, squinting into the darkness. It was possible that he’d bee mistaken, that this was a different, taller guard, but-

 

_ Movement _ . 

 

Messy blond hair. An apologetic half-smile. Steve Rogers steps out of the shadows to meet Sam’s gaze. 

 

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. The front of each cell slid open with a cool hiss of hydraulics. 

 

Sam stepps out, almost colliding with Lang as he darted forwards to thank Steve. Just visible in the dark, Barton is already fumbling at Wanda’s restraints. 

 

“Do you have our gear?” Lang asks, urgent. Sam nods to second him. 

 

“No, but I know where it is.” Steve turns back to Wanda and Barton. “Are you all clear to move out?” 

 

“Clear, Cap,” Barton says. “Itching to get a bow in my hands.”

 

Wanda pulled a snatch of red light out of the darkness. “I think I am ready to leave this place.”

 

“Follow me.” Steve passes a gun each to Sam and Barton and then leads them out of the cell block. Sam at his flank, Barton covering the back of the train. 

 

Sam has no idea what the layout of the Raft is beyong the passages he had been brought through to the exit, but when he sees an exit up ahead of them, he raises a hand to draw Steve’s attention. 

 

“Are they keeping out kit off-base?” he asks, hushed. “Because I don’t think Lang’s leaving without the suit.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “I didn’t come alone. The other guy has your gear.”

 

“You brought Barnes?” Clint doesn’t bother to lower his voice, apparently taking his cue from Steve. 

 

Steve stops at the exit, and turns back to face them. “He’s here. You trust me?”

 

“You know I do.” Sam steps up to the shattered window, looking out into the pitch-dark sea. Then he looks down, and sees thick cobwebs at his feet, stretching out into the night. “Oh, hell no.”

 

Steve, grinning, claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. 

 

And  _ shoves. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished! I finished early! 
> 
> Yeah, anyone wondering, the Raft break-in was a compromise. Peter got Steve in, stole the gear, and got everyone out to their ship, but didn't engage in any combat with the guards, or enter until Steve had taken them all out. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reviewed, bookmarked and left kudos!


End file.
